


Seven Days of the Week

by monopolizeme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Worry, quiet conversations, unconventional confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s hand is a grounding weight against the small of Stiles' back and Stiles knows that he’ll have to deal with tomorrow when he opens his eyes again. That another Monday will start, as it always does and so will Tuesday and so will Wednesday. And it will keep on churning unceasingly whether Stiles thinks he can manage through it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days of the Week

_Though I go to you_  
 _ceaselessly along dream paths,_  
 _the sum of those trysts_  
 _is less than a single glimpse_  
 _granted in the waking world.  
\-- _ Ono no Komachi

**Monday**

Monday mornings begin with sleepy lazy smiles that press against Derek’s throat, warm damp breath a puff of greeting as Stiles curls his way deeper into Derek’s chest, small teeth that bite at his skin and a slurred  _g’morning_  that tickles the curve of his ear.

And then the inevitable settles in (as it always does) and Stiles becomes a whirlwind of disarray, flailing limbs that jolt awake with a start and Stiles always seems to be at the mercy of his captured ankles still tangled in the sheets. He sleeps past the alarm on Mondays, and is surely threatened to be late for school,  _again_  and he can never seem to find his clothes.  
  
Derek makes a noise quite like a groan, lifting one arm to cover his eyes against the invasive sunlight; he never fails to berate Stiles’ frantic routine with a  _Why didn't you just fold them on the chair before you fell asleep?_  remark, as if it were so easy and not Derek's fault  _at all_.  
  
Somehow Stiles manages to find his underwear (how the hell did they end up beneath his  _pillow?_ ) and jeans and shirt, all the while biting out not-so-heated curses of,  _And who do you think is responsible for the state of my clothes anyway, asshole? So god damn persistent to get me into bed and fu-_  
  
Despite Derek's preference to sleep in on Mondays ( _I_ suffered _my years of high school, Stiles_ ), he drags himself out of bed, curls a warm palm against the nape of Stiles' neck to steady him. The brush of his mouth against Stiles' temple is a reassuring balm and Stiles finally stills, if just for a moment at the sound of Derek murmuring,  _Relax, Stiles, you still have time. Please, go wash your_ teeth _._  
  
There is breakfast on the counter when Stiles finally hurls himself down the stairs - the warm tang of egg-cheese omelet gathering in the morning air, infused with the rich smell of bacon, because Stiles insists that he  _cannot_  morph into a functioning human-being without bacon in the morning. There is never time to sit and eat with Derek on Monday mornings. Derek watches Stiles over the rim of his coffee mug with an amused smile that plays at the corner of his mouth. Stiles crams food into his mouth in a way that should not be considered humanly possible, gulping audibly and swallowing half a carton of orange juice during the rigorous process.  His eating habits never fail to entertain Derek though (and Stiles will never understand why).  
  
Derek is always rewarded with a kiss for his efforts in keeping Stiles' stomach somewhat sated, and the kiss is always a little bit too-sloppy and too-uncoordinated as Stiles rushes into him. But Stiles smells like the warm curl of  _comfort_  that teeters at the edges of his jaw and tastes like excitement that clings in soft salty beads of perspiration in the bow of his upper lip.

 

**Tuesday**

Tuesdays are sluggish and miserable. Stiles wakes up in his own bed, limbs restless with an uneasy ache of emptiness that he can never quite manage to push from his ribs.  He sleeps at home on Monday nights, because his father is  _insistent_  that Stiles cannot sleep over at Scott's ( _Derek's_ ) on a school night.  
  
Stiles stares with glazed eyes at the chalkboard during his first two periods. And Scott teases him mercilessly about it ( _my god, Stiles, you just saw him yesterday_ ) and Stiles always ends his school day in detention with Mr. Harris, who seems to be having less and less patience with seniors every passing day.  
  
He misses lacrosse practice (it doesn't upset him) and sits through at least two green lights on the drive home. The jeep needs gas but Stiles can't be bothered to fulfill even  _that_  simple a task, and his homework sits dejectedly on the desk while Stiles lays on his bedroom floor, arms spread out as the floorboards dig into his shoulder blades.  
  
On Tuesdays, Stiles forgets to take his Aderall and so he twitches listlessly, the skin across the insides of his wrists feeling cold and naked,  _untouched_  and Stiles almost disappears into his mind completely, staring into the ceiling as the world quiets to a low throb that greys the edges of his vision.  
  
Until there is that light rap of knuckles against the window pane.  
  
Stiles’ entire body scrambles to life, feet sliding against the floor and he trips and nearly falls face first into the corner of his bed in his haste to make it to the window.  
  
He feels the soft damp  _woosh_  of night air as it breaks into his room and Derek's face is all Stiles needs to feel the pulse of his heartbeat once again, as Derek's lips pull at the corners and Stiles tugs him in through the too-small opening of his window a little rougher and clumsier than he should.

 

**Wednesday**

Stiles thinks that he may hate the middle of the week more than any other day, if that is at all possible. It seems that evil always prefers to wait until everyone has settled into that familiar routine of normalcy, the first two days survived, leaving everyone too comfortable and forgetful of what lingers in the darkest corners of children's fairy tales.  
  
Wednesdays settle upon Stiles’ shoulders with icy fingers that bury themselves into Stiles’ flesh until his muscles are clenched so stiffly that it is difficult to move, let alone  _breathe_. Derek is never far from lingering near Stiles’ side: Stiles can feel his presence lurking beside the bleachers at lacrosse practice, through the windows and across the street when he sits hunched over a book in the library. Derek waits at the steps of Stiles’ school when the last period bell rings and Stiles could give a damn that the entire senior year watches him scramble into the passenger’s side of "Derek Hale's" Camero. Derek's fingers are warm and strong and press a little too tightly around Stiles' wrist during the drive home.  
  
Stiles spends the day pacing the halls of the Hale House and once so often Derek will catch Stiles by the arm and drag him forward, holding Stiles’ head in place as Stiles pants against the curve of Derek's neck, fingers trembling against Derek's elbows.  
  
 _It'll be ok,_  Derek breathes against Stiles’ hairline, hand firm as it slides down and presses flat between Stiles’ shoulder blades.  _We'll survive it, we_ will _._  
  
Wednesdays are wracked by nerves stretched raw from the unyielding pressure of impending and unavoidable chaos and the stench of blood that Stiles knows all too well. Wednesdays means that  _someone_  will attack, hunters or Alphas or whatever else god damn supernatural being worms its way into Beacon Hills - and Stiles knows how Wednesdays will end, because it always ends the same way no matter how many times Derek promises otherwise.  
  
Stiles' hands shake by his sides as the clock in the kitchen ticks softly, climbing steadily towards something Stiles does not  _know_  but  _feels_  crawling up the back of his throat. Wednesdays are like that last shuddering moment before your lungs finally give out and the water rushes in.

His knuckles are white-fisted and there are crescent moon gouges left in the tender inside of his palms from where his nails have dug too hard. Because any danger at all means that Derek must  _protect_  and is stupid reckless about it. Wednesdays end with Derek's head cradled in Stiles’ lap and the desperate wet sounds Stiles makes as he clutches at Derek's neck, his face, the pulse at his wrists - wet desperate sounds of  _God Derek, don't you do this, don't you fucking -_ breathe _, damn it,_ fucking-  
  
Stiles closes his eyes and focuses on the drag and exhale of air burning through his lungs, reminding him of how fragile and useless his eighteen-year old body really is.

 

**Thursday**

Thursdays awaken Stiles with open palms spreading up his spine, blunt fingernails dragging into the curve of his throat and the white-flash sparks of pleasure that burst behind his eyelids. There is the pull of teeth at his lower lip and the growl of possession that pushes into Stiles’ mouth, open and damp with slick lips that Derek bites at greedily. Thursdays begin with the thrust and slide of Derek against him, between his legs, against his thighs and it is always a battle of needy desperate fingers and Stiles gasping hotly into Derek’s shoulder and the low rumble of  _need_  that breaks from Derek’s mouth as he comes, filling Stiles thick and warm, and Stiles takes and takes as much as Derek will give him, until Stiles is coming helplessly beneath Derek’s weight, Derek’s arms and knees caging him against the mattress as he marks Stiles’ collarbone through the come down.  
  
It should be enough, really, but it never is. Stiles drags Derek into the shower afterwards and takes Derek deep into his throat, humming in reply to the hiss and snarl it elicits from behind Derek’s teeth.  
  
Stiles nuzzles his cheek against Derek’s shoulder as he starts a pot of coffee, Stiles’ hands never leaving their tight knot at the front of Derek’s waist. He skips school and clings to Derek in a way that should be infuriating, but Derek  _gets it_ , he does and his hands rarely leave any patches of skin on Stiles’ squirming body.  
  
Once dusk begins to settle, Stiles takes Derek to the sleaziest club that he can find, fingers tangled possessively with Derek’s as he leads him to the center of the dance floor, where the press and throb of writhing bodies forces them flush against one another (not that Derek would have it any other way). It is here amongst the throng of careless heady minds and air so thick with lust it makes Stiles dizzy, that Stiles can forget completely. He winds his hands up Derek’s chest where they clasp loosely against the nape of his neck, already damp with sweat. Stiles likes the way Derek’s eyes glow blue in the pulse-throb of harsh strobe lights, and Derek watches Stiles with an intensity that strips Stiles bare, forcing him taunt with  _want_  and Stiles rolls his hips into Derek’s, as the slick-slide heat of their bodies arch together under the steady driving rhythm.  
  
Derek moves slow and filthy, pushing his thigh between Stiles’ legs and pressing  _up_  until Stiles is rutted against him, until Stiles moans and drops his head back, revealing the graceful arc of his throat as the blue-white lights dance across his skin. Derek’s fingers against his hips always press a little too harshly, and Stiles shivers as the bruises make their presence known into his flesh.  
  
Stiles loves it, though. After all, it means he’s alive, and so is Derek, teeth an erotic scrape across his throat, claiming him and Stiles loves the way Derek crowds him against the wall in one of the back rooms, working him open and taking him slowly as Stiles comes apart to the hot damp whispers of Derek’s open mouth at the back of his neck, broken confessions of,  _god Stiles, you’re so perfect, yes, just like_ that _, jesus - so good- so fucking good-_  clinging to Stiles as if he’s never wanted anything else.

 

**Friday**

Stiles, more often than not, is grounded on Fridays.

His father is waiting in the kitchen for him when he arrives home from school (after the club Derek had dragged him straight home into bed and Stiles was  _not_  about to thwart any of what had occurred afterwards) and Stiles manages to make it to the edge of the stairs before his father’s voice is calling him back with steely warning.

Stiles whips around quickly and it is not so much that he is startled but more so that there is a rather large and sporting bruise at the back of his neck, where Derek bit down  _hard_  as he came and of _course_  he marked Stiles where no collar could possibly hide it.

Stiles forces his face into a wide ridiculous grin and says,  _Heya, pop, how’s it going?_ feigning for nonchalance that neither of them is buying.

His father’s brows are drawn, chin titled downward as he regards Stiles in obvious displeasure.

_Fun evening last night?_  he asks and Stiles knows that this is going to go very badly very quickly if he does not get himself to the safety of his room within the next three minutes.

_Ah! Fun!_  He bursts out, his voice jumpy and too high and he makes some flailing motion that dies weakly with Stiles scratching at the back of his head. His face slowly crinkles.  _…Just, normal, stuff. Normal Scott stuff._

His father sighs.

Stiles’ phone vibrates in his pocket and he does his best not to leap backwards into the staircase at the utter shock that jolts through his body in surprise.

_Stiles…_

_Right! Yes! Grounded. Absolutely got it, good, very… good._  Stiles’ teeth click together, wincing at his father’s unyielding expression.

But the older man doesn’t seem to even want to know the details of Stiles’ Thursday evening (and  _god_  is Stiles grateful for that) and he just sighs again, shakes his head and mutters,  _The whole weekend, Stiles_  and turns away.

Stiles is up the stairs and in his room before his father can have a change of mind and he scrambles crazily for the still-vibrating object in his pocket.

He thumbs to his messages and grins when he sees that it’s from Derek, before he even reads the message.

_Grounded?_

Stiles’ lips pull back and he is smiling like an idiot, he knows, but there’s no one here to see him so it doesn’t matter.

He texts back:

_Totally worth it._

**Saturday**

Saturdays usually do not fair much better than Fridays ( _I swear to god, Stiles, if you can’t pass your senior year-_ ) but Stiles’ dad is often called to the station on Saturdays, be it for a meeting of sorts or a training session for the rookies or the simple sad fact that they are once again short staffed. Stiles may still be grounded, and he does respect that, _truly_  and _doesn’t_  try to sneak out, but he never spends Saturdays alone.  
  
Derek makes his way down the stairs usually near the end of mid-day (because Derek seems stuck to routine and comfortable habits and Stiles’ window is the  _only_  option worth considering) and is often met with Stiles bounding from the kitchen and barreling into Derek’s chest, as if a night and a half of not being near Derek has left his body half-starved and brain deprived of rational thought.  
  
Stiles likes the way Derek huffs a smile against the curve of his neck in return, hands squeezing gently around his waist in silent affection of  _yes, I missed you too_.  
  
Stiles spends Saturday curled up on the couch with Derek seated on the far left side as they watch badly directed sci-fi movies with even worse actors. Stiles fills the majority of the time squawking in outrage or alarm when something particularly (stupid) occurs ( _Did you see that? It hurled itself out of the water and tore a helicopter from the_ sky _! No kind of shark should be capable of that, I don’t care how genetically fucked up it is._ ) and Derek obliges these little disturbances with a subtle tilt of his chin. He’s not all that interested in the movie after all, and the twist of Stiles’ wrists and animated curl of his long fingers are too distracting for Derek to concentrate anyway.  
  
At some point Stiles pushes himself into a seated position on the couch, legs tucked beneath him and points two fingers in Derek’s direction with a firm, lecturing look.  
  
 _Don’t even try to play that tough act with me,_  Stiles warns,  _I know you totally have a kink for fucked up genetically altered man-eating reptiles and amphibians._  
  
Derek catches Stiles around the wrist, with deft unnatural speed, and Stiles' eyes goes wide, pupils dilating fully as his jaw falls slack and Derek jerks him into his lap, eyes never leaving Stiles as he guides the tips of Stiles’ fine-boned fingers into his mouth. His eyes flicker in satisfaction at the low keen that Stiles makes in the back of his throat, the way Stiles twists his fingers around Derek’s wet sliding tongue as he sucks the digits deep into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with every pull.  
  
Stiles’ eyes threaten to roll into the back of his head and he sputters a choked,  _Fuck-_  
  
Derek lets Stiles’ fingers slide from his parted lips. The knuckles and pale thin skin gleams lewdly with Derek’s saliva in the waning sunlight, and Derek loves the cock-twitch response that he can get from Stiles simply by whispering in his ear,  _I’m gonna eat you out, Stiles._  
  
On the occasions that Stiles is lucky, his father does not arrive home early.

 

**Sunday**

Stiles likes to tell Derek, with a teasing smile and nudge of his shoulder, that Sunday _is ours_.

He wakes up at a reasonable hour, manages the most of his homework at the dining room table around a mouthful of chicken-salad sandwich and spends the quiet morning mulling over mathematical equations as his father joins him with the Sunday post.

His backpack is slung over one shoulder as he makes to leave, his father calling out an affectionate reminder,  _Don’t be home too late_ , and Stiles can not help but smile faintly at this. They both know that he will not be returning this evening, but they play their part with each other, the topic still not fully broached although quietly understood:

Sunday belongs to Derek.

The pack never stays with Derek on Sundays, so the house is oddly quiet but soothing. It has been (mostly) rebuilt but there still lingers that underlying smell of earth and smoldered timber. Rather than tear everything down, Derek built over the ruins, a silent reverence of the past, of loved ones gone but not completely, no, for they still live in the patches of wood, the creaks in the floorboards, the flecks of time that cling to the old glass windows in some of the rooms. Derek doesn’t speak of it, his decision to keep the past curled around him, but Stiles understands, and like his own memories that map along his skin in ways still too tender-sore to speak of, Stiles leaves them be.

There’s no pot of coffee in its usual spot by the stove, so Stiles gathers the raw coffee grinds from the freezer and prepares a fresh brew for Derek, (who is  _somewhere_  about the house, Stiles just isn’t quite sure  _where_  - but there is that familiar itch skirting across the base of his neck that makes itself known whenever Derek is near).

He is close to finishing the ham-and-spinach omelet crackling in the frying-pan when his waist is suddenly encircled and his body pulled  _back_. Strong naked arms curl and tangle against Stiles’ stomach and he can feel Derek’s heat spread across the narrow breadth of his back. His body relaxes of its own (he hadn’t thought he was tense to begin with) but his muscles and bones know their other half and welcome Derek’s presence, the knowing warmth that buries itself beneath Stiles’ skin and settles against tendons and the spider-lines of his veins.

_Isn’t_ _it a bit late for you to be eating breakfast?_  Derek murmurs against Stiles’ still-short hair. He nuzzles at that sensitive patch of skin behind Stiles’ ear and hums with content when Stiles shivers in response.

Derek’s voice sounds tinged with sleep and that makes Stiles curious.

_It’s for you, actually,_ Stiles replies, his voice staying soft to echo Derek’s. It seems suiting to how still the house feels, as if it’s waiting with hushed mouths to listen to what Stiles and Derek might have to say.  _No dishes in the sink, I figured you hadn’t eaten yet. Were you sleeping?_

Derek hums noncommittally, breath fanning across the delicate shell of Stiles’ ear. Instead of answering he drags a line down the curve of Stiles’ neck with his nose, breathing deep, exhaling, drawing in Stiles’ scent again.

Stiles lifts his hand and lightly raps the back of his knuckles against Derek’s bare shoulder; the smooth tight muscle twitches in return to being touched.

_Hey,_  Stiles says softly, not that he minds. He moves to turn his face into Derek before realizing the still-cooking egg on the stove, the orange-red flames licking at the bottom of the pan. He turns off the dial with a quick twist of his wrist, bites back a smile at the low growl Derek makes (Stiles knows Derek saw the action, his gaze is always hypnotized by Stiles’ bony wrists and sweeping fingers) and Stiles flips the egg over one last time, a swell of pride rising on his cheeks at not breaking and ruining his omelet creation.

Derek’s fingers scratch at the skin of Stiles’ waist, the hem of his shirt rucked up slightly.

_Not like you to sleep in,_  comments Stiles, stretching up to the open cupboard for a plate as he digs out the proper utensils from the side draw with his other hand. Derek bares his teeth slightly against Stiles’ throat, his hold tightening as the action results in Stiles having to pull  _away_  somewhat with his task.

_You’re ridiculous,_ Stiles admonishes, but rewards Derek with a kiss in his (damp?) hair anyway.  _Hey – take a shower?_

Derek nods, finally relinquishing his hold, albeit reluctantly and looking a little disgruntled by it, and Stiles prods at Derek’s broad naked shoulders, ushering him to take a seat.

_I went for a run early this morning and then showered. I guess I fell asleep again._

Stiles can’t chase the teasing grin that plays at his lips when he takes a chair beside Derek, sliding the plate full of fluffy omelet-deliciousness in front of his companion.

_Lonely without me?_

It’s a cheesy line, Stiles knows it, but there is no one else in the house to hear besides Derek.

Stiles prepares to gloat but is cut off by the firm grip that clamps around the back of his neck, his arms flailing about with the least bit of grace as Derek nearly hauls him out of his chair to press an open-mouthed kiss into Stiles’ already gaping mouth.

The kiss is warm and slow, a little heady, and Stiles allows his eyes to flutter shut as Derek teases the roof of his mouth before finally _tasting_ , wet slide of tongue and gentle nipping of teeth that drag across Stiles’ lower lip. Stiles makes a noise. Derek swallows it and draws another one out of Stiles.

When Derek pulls away, still too close, his eyes are trained fondly upon Stiles’, (which admittedly are a little drugged looking).

His eyes glint with self-satisfaction.

_Yes_.

Stiles doesn’t quite have a response for that (sometimes Derek is so damn  _honest_  that Stiles doesn’t know how to speak at all) and attests it to the slightly fried synapses of his brain struggling to get their asses back in gear.

_Right_ , says Stiles, nodding, although that’s probably redundant so instead he crosses his arms flat on the cold wooden surface of the table and rests his cheek in the crook they make.

He likes the little smile that tugs down at the edges of Derek’s mouth as he eats.

_You’re getting it too easy_ , Stiles says, gazing up at Derek in a way that he knows is an obvious target to be mocked but he can’t help it, Sunday is  _theirs_  and he’ll enjoy every sappy moment of it that he can.  _I’m practically a housewife to you, cooking you breakfast and sucking your_ -

Derek shoves a clump of egg and spinach into Stiles’ mouth before he can finish that sentence, and Stiles chokes on his laughter and nearly spits out ham against Derek’s invasive fingers.

Later, when they’re laying out on the grass behind Derek’s house, that small clearing that isn’t shaded by the looming treetops, where the waning sun can still touch and skate warmly against their faces, Stiles tangles his fingers with Derek’s. They’re laying on their backs and Derek has (unfortunately) donned a shirt, but his arms are still bare and radiating heat as Stiles presses his shoulder against Derek’s, tries to rest his cheek awkwardly in the crook of Derek’s neck.

He thinks of the end of the school year that creeps upon him closer and closer; and how he will explain to Derek that he has chosen  _not_  to dorm away but commute instead and  _yes_ , this was utterly his unbiased decision. He thinks of his father and the responsibilities he takes in protecting this town, his home,  _Stiles’_   home, Stiles’ home with  _Derek_ , and how that is enough for Stiles, he doesn’t need college dorms and weekend parties (although who’s to say that cannot happen even when commuting?) and he likes that there is a room at the end of the hall on the second floor of the Hale House, near to Derek’s room, which Derek has not mentioned yet but Stiles knows that it belongs to him, if he wants it.

And he does.

He knows that there will always be Wednesdays and Alphas roaming into Beacon Hills, threatening to  _take_ , offering sweet liquid words of invitation for Derek to abandon this empty town and join the ranks, to gain the unfathomable strength that an Alpha can achieve only when joined with other Alphas.

The knowledge of being a human with a werewolf who is, out of instinct, drawn to his own kind always leaves Stiles trembling. But Derek can sense the fear, always so sensitive to it, to the doubt that creeps up Stiles’ spine and into the contours of his brain.

_No_ , Derek will whisper, pressing his hand flat against Stiles’ chest, grounding him.  _No_.

Stiles pushes himself to his elbows suddenly, and Derek squints one eye open at the abrupt change at Stiles almost being  _still_  for once.

The sun is dying thinly through the trees, but it lingers with faint determination and Stiles moves his head so he is blocking the uncomfortable intrusion into Derek’s eyes.

Derek’s face is eclipsed by shadows that splay across his face in cookie-cutter shapes, odd angles that dip and arch across his cheekbones, the soft skin beneath his eyes, the hollow valley below his brows.

_What is it?_   He asks.

Stiles purses his lips, because he doesn’t know how to say it, how to formulate the thoughts in his head into a verbal stream that will make sense, that will not frighten or chase away or possibly ruin all these days, weeks, months.

_I want_ , he pulls in a breath, feels the squeezing pressure of his heart against his rib-cage  at the inside of his wrists, the pulse behind his belly-button.  _Nothing more than this_.

Derek’s brows draw together, confused.

_This_ , Stiles says again, as if that explains everything. So he speaks like Derek speaks, through actions, and hopes that he will understand. He presses his palm over Derek’s heart, fingers splaying outwards.  _I love_ this _. I don’t want anything more. Just this. This beating heart._

Derek watches Stiles’ face, never pulling away, even when Stiles presses his hand  _down_ into Derek’s flesh, strong above the thud of his heart, as if he could scoop into Derek’s chest and touch the beating life source.

Derek’s eyes flicker back and forth, searching Stiles’ face.

_If I could_ , Stiles says quietly,  _I’d take it into myself, I’d make it so that there’d never be a reason for it to be separate from my own._

Derek nods. It’s a distant subtle movement but it is there and he lifts a hand, slowly, carefully, hesitantly letting it settle against the center of Stiles’ chest. He is breathing hard now, thick dark brows drawing tight in concentration. His mouth forms a thin line.

_Me too_ , he says, his voice a little rough. But when he continues it’s smoother, gruff around the edges but warmed in a tone that Stiles recognizes as  _theirs_.  _I do too._

He nods again as if silently reconfirming to himself _._

_I –_ His fingers curl inwards, just a little but Stiles feels the blunt scrape of human nails pulling at the fabric of his shirt, across the skin that traces his heart. _I love this beating heart_.

It’s a strange way of them saying it, Stiles knows this, but there is nothing normal about anything in Stiles’ life, from the way he catalogs the days to the breathing, living werewolf stretched beneath the length of his own body.

Stiles relishes in the last hours of Sunday, the fleeting moments of  _now_  and he tries not to press too closely into Derek’s chest as nightfall settles around them, as their bodies fit to one another in the center of Derek’s bed. Derek’s hand is a grounding weight against the small of his back and Stiles knows that he’ll have to deal with tomorrow when he opens his eyes again. That another Monday will start, as it always does and so will Tuesday and so will Wednesday. And it will keep on churning unceasingly whether Stiles thinks he can manage through it or not.

Because when he wakes the next morning, Derek is still there, coaxing him through the routine again.

A routine that is  _theirs_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And so here is my first dabble into Teen Wolf fanfiction. :) I hope that you all enjoyed - and that you understood what it was that Derek and Stiles were confessing to one another at the end there. I originally posted this story on tumblr, as separate posts for each day of the week. There are special Sterek gifs included with each "day," so if you would like, you can read/see them [here](http://monopolizeme.tumblr.com/tagged/tw-week).
> 
> Thank you kindly for reading! ♥


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